


5(00) Times Sherlock Had His Way With John and That One Time John Did.

by Meowbowwow



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 5+1, Anal Sex, M/M, PWP, Rimming, handjobs, idk LOADS OF SEX, semi public sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 17:26:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Meowbowwow/pseuds/Meowbowwow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"See, the point was that when Sherlock Holmes wanted, he was positively randy, and otherwise, he became this asexual creature of mystery that wouldn’t even kiss you good morning."</p>
            </blockquote>





	5(00) Times Sherlock Had His Way With John and That One Time John Did.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrisKenshin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisKenshin/gifts).



> This was written for my ao3auction winner and friend Kriskenshin. Thank you so much and I hope you like it.

Chemistry was a subject John Watson hated more than anything else in the world. He felt like a weightless ghost flitting in and out of the lab, holding test tubes and dropping things. He hated the smell of burning hair and skin; but more than that, he despised the subject because it brought his grades down. John wasn’t a particularly bright student but he was definitely above average, even after the abysmal Chemistry marks. He was a great athlete but even though everyone expected him to end up as a football star, John took it as a hobby.

His loathing for Chemistry was why it happened for the first time. His parents made him change rooms so that his grades would improve. Sherlock Holmes’ parents made him change rooms so that his social life would improve. Neither of them wanted to but they did. And this is how John Watson, who couldn’t reach the top shelf of his parents’ kitchen, met Sherlock Holmes who used school kitchens for experiments (and bathrooms too, for that matter).

It was their first day together and a Saturday. After moving their stuff, they were exhausted and the scorching heat wasn’t helping. The fan was the slowest thing John had ever seen in his life (after a lecture on Organic Chemistry). So he made a start. He spoke about the weather and the humidity, the reply to which was a sideways glance from Sherlock, who then followed it up by removing his t-shirt and flopping down on his back. John did the same, but not a word was exchanged during the entire activity. Sherlock was reading some book and John happened to glance at the cover. It was a Chemistry book. He mentally groaned.

“It’s a book much ahead of your level.” He’d almost missed that, the voice was very low and the baritone was richer than boys their age had the luxury of having.  
“So, you like Chemistry. Good for you, I’m lousy at it,” he grimaced, using his shirt to wipe his face and smelling his own cologne, a gift from Harry. That reminded him that he needed to call his sister.

“Well, it’s easy enough if you know the basics and enjoy the subject. Anyways, you need to call your brother and I need to finish this book tonight, so, bye.” Sherlock’s reply was curt, he made John feel like it was criminal not to like Chemistry. His eyes never left the book, they were moving continuously, so he really was reading the…thing.

Of course, John Watson had heard of Sherlock Holmes. Everyone had. Rich family, genius brothers, full scholarship, it was like a perfect world they lived in. And yet, as days passed into weeks and then months, and John saw none of Sherlock’s friends ever visit him, the idea of perfection seemed too perfect to be real.

Yes, Sherlock was a little…weird; there was no other word for him apart from that one. He would look at you and tell your life story in a few glances or through your football shoes or something else and yet, it took him ages to answer a direct question like “How are you today”? But he was weird in a wonderful way too. He brought all the basic Chemistry books from the library and bookmarked pages he wanted John to read. He brought a whiteboard into the room to make structures when they studied together. He would give John all the presents of liquor chocolates that Mycroft, his brother, sent him. They had become great friends who studied Chemistry, had lunch (at least one of them did), shared chocolate and fucked. Well, no, but the last one followed soon enough, even after John’s continued insistence that he was as straight as Sherlock’s cupid bowed lips, which were a part of many heterosexual fantasies of his, but let us not talk about that.

It was a warm day and they had it free. So, when John came back into the room, sweating in spite of the shower he just had, Sherlock wrote “Aromaticity of Compounds” in capital letters on the whiteboard and smiled when John groaned as he fell down on the bed. However, the smile was soon replaced by irritation and impatience when, after spending an hour trying to teach John “Hückel’s rule”, John had forgotten more than he had learnt. Phrases like “idiot” and “bad teacher” flew in the air as John gathered his stuff and left in a huff, leaving Sherlock alone to sulk.

He came back after 4 hours, still a little cross. Sherlock’s eyes gave him a quick once over and he muttered, “Library. So, are you the next Kekule now? Or perhaps Dewar,” He scoffed and so did John.  
“Ask me questions and let’s just get this done with. I hate Chemistry and I hate studying it with you!”

“Okay.” The reply was curt as ever as Sherlock pouted and John fought back a smile. This was a time to be cross, not smile.  
“I’ll name some compounds and you tell me whether they are aromatic or not.” Sherlock closed the book he was reading and steepled his fingers under his chin. John nodded and put his hands behind his head as he lay down on his back, trying not to be nervous. The test was tomorrow, after all.

“Benzene?” asked Sherlock, looking at John, his face an expressionless mask.

“Yes.” was John’s short and curt answer. He felt proud and believed he could make it through this.

 “Good. C8?  
“No.”  
“Ethene? Pyridine?”  
“Yes and yes.”  
“C102?” John made a mental calculation in his head. Before Sherlock could make the impatient noise he was so fond of making

“Yes!” John smirked as Sherlock smiled.

Now, Sherlock was smiling a bit and John felt better about the 4 hours spent slogging in the library.  
“Last one, now. C6 compounds?”  
“Isn’t that Benzene?” John raised himself enough to grin and they started sniggering. Before he knew it, Sherlock’s lips were on John’s and he was kissing him. The angle was awkward and Sherlock hadn’t done this before and he didn’t even know why he was doing it, but he was and it was good until he realised what he was doing but then, John was pulling him over himself and Sherlock forgot everything.

In all his history of kisses, this had to be the most awkward for John. There were bumping noses and wrong angles that made his back hurt, too much teeth and too little tongue, not to mention the sudden kiss that nearly knocked him down. But then it got better, and he pulled at Sherlock’s shirt and Sherlock kissed him like he was drowning for it. There were elegant hands running under his shirt and he knew he was sweaty but Sherlock moaned in his mouth, a sound John thought he’d never hear in reality and God, it was good. When they stopped to catch their breath, John thought it would be awkward as hell; they had just left straight friends territory and entered homo land. But Sherlock gave him a dazzling smile and he sniggered in return. Soon, the sniggers turned into guffaws and they were rolling on the bed till their sides were aching. Jesus, why they were laughing? John didn’t know, he just knew that it felt really good and he felt lighter than he had in ages.

“You did good. Maybe you should study alone,” Sherlock turned, facing John and speaking honestly. He would miss their little sessions but well…  
“Nah, I don’t think I can endure Chemistry alone.”  
“Oh, is that the reason? Here I thought it was because…” His hands were back under John’s shirt and he started kissing him again, the cheeky bastard.  
“You are insufferable. We’ll do this later. No! Sherlock! We have a test tomorrow!”  
“Okay.”  
“Good, so let’s go through the notes again- no, NO! Take your hands out of- oh god yes!”

And this is how it began.

 

***

 

They lived in 221B now, and Sherlock was as incorrigible as ever. John waded through a pile of papers that were being searched because the genius detective had a sudden brainstorm about an old case, a group of four murderers or something John had no interest in finding out, not at 8 am in the morning, certainly. His phone rang, as was so often its way when he was waiting for the kettle to boil. It was Harry, John let out an audible sigh and Sherlock’s hunched shoulders made a funny movement that wasn’t missed. He found a clean place by the wall and picked up the phone, sounding more enthusiastic than he actually was and ignored Sherlock’s derisive snort somewhere behind him. Harry started telling him about some party she was throwing, urging him and Sherlock to come because it was going to be such fun and John zoned out after that. Somewhere between cranberry flavoured vodka and a guy Harry had met, there were arms around him and a delicate chin resting on his shoulder, making the chat far more enjoyable than it should have been.

“What are you doing?” John kept his voice as low as possible, but alas, Harry replied about the house cleaning campaign, thanks to the party, and Sherlock sniggered in his neck, making John shiver. _Stop it!_ John mouthed and was almost mauled with kisses which he didn’t necessarily mind. See, the point was that when Sherlock Holmes wanted, he was positively randy, and otherwise, he became this asexual creature of mystery that wouldn’t even kiss you good morning. And as Sherlock knelt in front of him and unzipped his trousers, trapping him between the wall and his mouth, John mentally recounted the number of times this had happened, starting from that fateful day of aromatic compounds. As Sherlock finished the unzipping, giving quite a performance because John was hard now, he started kissing his clothed erection through the red pants and John cut his moan by a deep hum, which made Harry comment that she liked “it” too. God knows what “it” was because John certainly didn’t care.

He would have tried to come out of the conversation and hang up but Harry was sounding so enthusiastic and, well, he wanted to finish it once and for all without feeling guilty enough to call back. Sherlock nudged his legs apart and pulled his pants down, freeing his erection. But he didn’t touch it, not until he had run his tongue sinfully over his balls and John’s free hand had fisted in his hair. Then Sherlock moaned and covered both his balls with his mouth, tugging at them and then rolling them with that snarky tongue. John, in turn, was mesmerised by the way his erection rested on the side of Sherlock’s face, a trail of pre-come just missing his left eyebrow.

And Harry was still talking but John realised too late that he hadn’t hummed in a while. Sherlock, unpredictable as he was, released his balls with a wet pop and directed all his sudden and undivided attention to the glistening head. He had no decency to wait for John to react or die of a cardiac arrest as he took his entire length in, overwhelming him with the sudden heat and wetness of his mouth. John made a broken garbled sound on the phone, hoping against hope that it would suffice but John’s luck was infamous and it struck again. Harry said something and John decided not to answer because now Sherlock was playing dirty and bringing his tongue into play and God the sly imp! Of course he knew what John was- “Oh God!” John couldn’t hold back and Harry’s “John?” seemed far off and distant. But now John was long lost into never-never-land (his own mind supplied, the horrible thing) and he started thrusting in Sherlock mouth, phone still trapped between his shoulder and left ear and both hands in Sherlock’s hair.

“John!” Harry’s voice came back and John answered, “Oh God, Sherlock!” he tightened his grip on his hair once, warning him.

“John, what’s happening?”  
“Sherlock, fuck fuck!!”  
“JOHN, ARE YOU-”  
“Sherlock, ohhhhh…”

At least Harry had the decency of hanging up at the last moan of pleasure. Sherlock gently lowered John on to the pile of papers and between kisses and John’s hand creeping down Sherlock’s pyjamas, John realised that Sherlock always got what he wanted and something had to be done about it.

 

***

 

John had never wanted his shift to get over so bad because Sherlock had just discovered sexting and well, “discovered” was a kind word, to say the least. He tapped his foot absentmindedly against the leg of the table as his patient knocked in and John quickly shoved the phone inside the drawer, as if even looking at it would make something happen…uhm…somewhere. He looked up, the guy had ginger hair and an all too familiar smirk.

Sarah didn’t hear John buzz for an hour after that but since he was with a “patient” she didn’t want to disturb him. Well, thank God she didn’t or she’d have been scarred for life. Suffice to say, John would never be able to sit in that room and stare at those seven absurdly comfortable surfaces without getting the flashbacks.

 

***

 

Mycroft surveyed them over his drink as they came back from the loo. The Diogenes club was one place John had never thought Sherlock would do something like this. It felt sinful, like a dirty secret which was he could read in Mycroft’s eyes as plain as daylight. He bowed his head and sipped his drink and Sherlock almost fell out of his chair, trying to suppress his smirk.

 

***

 

The kettle rattled and John bit on his fist as Greg and the rest of the Yard laughed in the living room and Sherlock licked John’s hole and asked him to call him something he wouldn’t have had he not known that they would never meet Sherlock’s father (he was dead). He bruised his forehead against the counter as he came from that tongue alone.

 

***

 

“John please, the entire Scotland Yard’s Homicides and Serious Crimes Command is blindfolded and handcuffed four feet from us!” Not the words one expects to hear in their life, especially when one is used to being with Sherlock Holmes. Not the words one expects to ignore either, but John did, by a thing he called kissing but which eloquent people would call “devouring someone’s mouth”. And who could blame him, he was seeing his lover after 2 days of hellish chases through London, to finally find him in NSY. And so, he whispered a muffled “don’t care,” and sucked on Sherlock’s lower lip with renewed enthusiasm.

Well, the thing is that this psychopathic serial killer had brought the entire Scotland Yard to its knees and while John and Lestrade were working on how to save the entire police force, Mycroft and Sherlock had been sent there to mediate with the murderer and had found themselves bound and gagged at gunpoint. In retrospect, it didn’t seem like the smartest of moves. DI Lestrade had had no food or sleep for the past 2 days and John hadn’t spoken a word.

When the murderer finally opened the door for his food delivery (honestly, how idiotic can people be?!!), the urchin magically transformed into a very angry soldier and before he could lunge for his gun, Lestrade had pinned him to the ground as John quickly went in to check on everyone (Sherlock). The DI soon followed and felt relieved at finding Mycroft safe and secure (and a little perturbed because Mycroft had never looked so unkempt in his entire existence).

After a few quick words and a small reassurance to the still bound and blindfolded NSY employees, Lestrade dragged Mycroft to his own office and closed the door with a bang, only to open it in a while and throw a few pouches of lube and a cheeky grin to John who, to the surprise a very aghast Sherlock Holmes, winked back and pinned Sherlock against the wall. And so, the statement of “John please, the entire Scotland Yard’s Homicides and Serious Crimes Command is blindfolded and handcuffed four feet from us!” was uttered and lost in kisses. Similar whispers of “my brother’s idiocy is rubbing off on you, Gregory” could be heard from the other room but John ignored it. Thinking about his brother’s naked self being manhandled by Lestrade was the last thing John wanted Sherlock’s libido to think about at the moment.

“I’m dirty, I haven’t had a shower in days. John, are you even listening! I really need to examine the killer’s fingernails,” Sherlock whispered as quietly as he could, trying to put that sinful voice he had to get what he wanted but unable to control himself and sucking on John’s ear lobe while he…was in that area. John gave an appreciative grunt and whispered, “Oh yes, you are dirty, and fingernails can wait,” rubbing his cheek against the familiar coat and inhaling audibly with Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth, and honest to God, Sherlock Holmes thought that would be the end of him. _World’s only consulting detective dead because of lover’s lecherous antics._  
  
“I missed you too,” Sherlock hung on to him, trying his best to stop him by begging for more. He made a low keening noise, in disagreement of course, when John unbuckled his pants. His whimper was absolutely not needy when John’s hand brushed against his erection and he was not moaning when his pants were pulled down and a long finger traced the vein on his erection.

“And I must have you. Right Now” The growl was low but Sherlock’s head whipped around to see if anyone had heard John, then he was terribly distracted when a wet mouth started nibbling around his neck. When Mycroft groaned from the other room and Sherlock managed to sustain his erection, he knew that this was really out of his hand (and into John’s).

“Sherlock…” and the word wasn’t a two syllable thing anymore, it had been transformed into the filthiest innuendo and the softest proclamation of want, spoken quietly against his neck with hands digging into his ass and pulling him closer. John’s index finger traced the crack of his arse with the most teasing of touches as his silk boxers were pulled down and his neck was licked thrice, “I-” _lick_ “am-” _suck_ “oh God!-” _bite._ Few people could silence Sherlock Holmes like that.

 “What’s going on, have they left us here?” Anderson’s voice came from somewhere near the water cooler and John put his hand on Sherlock’s mouth before he could respond with an insult. Well, it’s another thing entirely when his fingers were sucked into that gorgeous mouth and an excellent blow job was demonstrated on them. _Filthy slut._ Sherlock keened at the phrase.

“Open yourself up for me,” the lube was thrust into his hand as John dropped to his knees, waiting for him to push those fingers inside himself. As Sherlock reached back and spread his legs, a moist tongue traced a clear path from the side of his knees to his balls where it remained stationary, viridian eyes motioning him to move as they rested on his skin. As Sherlock moved his hand, his balls disappeared into that mouth and Jesus Christ his knees almost gave up as the tongue started moving around it but God forbid if he stopped fucking himself with his fingers and that mouth stopped.

“Another. Scissor them,” John whispered, his nose almost brushing the wet head of Sherlock’s erection. And as Sherlock did, the mouth closed over the head and gently dipped inside the slit, smiling as he stopped for a while to get his own head from spinning out of control.

It took all of Sherlock’s will power to pull that head up and away from his erection, into a messy kiss.  
“Now. Please. I can’t stand a blowjob,” he whispered as he turned around and wrapped his hand around his erection, trying hard not to move as John lined up behind him and just rubbed his cock in the crack of his arse, licking the shell of his ear.

“Oh, Sherlock!!!” John’s voice was higher than he had intended and a few heads turned in their direction until Anderson spoke again, “John? Was that you?” _Shit,_ John mumbled as he heard a broken chuckle of the man who should have been, in normal circumstances, unable to speak, let alone chuckle.  
“Yes, Anderson, it’s okay.” He tried to sound as normal as anyone would when they had a Sherlock struck to them.  
“You sound strained, is everything okay!” Anderson had never cared as much for John as he was at that second or so John thought as he screamed back, “I SAID I AM ALRIGHT!” and hit Sherlock’s prostate with a groan as Sherlock forgot what insult he was planning on using.  
“Why are you groaning then?” _Anderson do you ever give up on stupidity,_ Sherlock wondered.  
“Wanking.” He almost gasped his response because Sherlock’s hand guided his own towards his erection and he started moving, whispering “I’m close, John.”  
“WHAT! Here!! But we- WE ARE ALL FUCKING HANDCUFFED AND BLINDFOLDED HERE!” Anderson would have been dead had John been able to move.  
“Against the leg,” Sherlock whispered in his ear, his hand moving faster as John repeated the words and froze in shock at a very amused sound and the realisation at what he’d just said dawned on him.

And Anderson spoke no more (Well, neither did John if you don’t count the moans and whimpers, that is). As Sherlock withdrew his hand to put his fist in his mouth and bite on his knuckles, they could hear a small sound of “Gregory” from the other room when Sherlock started coming all over John’s fist, trying very hard not to make a sound but even the rustling of their clothes seemed to make a cacophony. John followed, very audible to Sherlock but not to anyone else. As they rode the aftershocks quietly, rocking against each other and it seemed that the other couple had broken a table in the adjacent room, John slowly extricated himself and they crawled to the toilet at the end of the hallway where they cleaned themselves up between sniggers.

“Anderson thinks I was rutting against the leg of a chair, gosh!” John said, pulling his pants up.  
“Who cares,” Sherlock shrugged, looking as posh as ever.

As they left the room and passed the DI’s office, there seemed to be quite a commotion inside.  
“Hmm, on the table, my brother is quite kinky, I must say,” Sherlock looked genuinely surprised as John gave him a horrified look that said “thanks for the mental image.”  
“What! I think Lestrade missed Mycroft more than you missed me,” the smirk was back as he planted a chaste kiss on John’s lips and cupped his face.  
“Enough missing for a lifetime, I think,” John smiled against his lips, their foreheads resting together.

“Let’s ‘rescue’ these idiots then,” Sherlock made to go but was yanked back as John motioned towards the closed room. “Oh, they moved on to the wall,” Sherlock exclaimed with a smile that was both caustic and insincere.

“Let’s hope they finish soon.”  
“Why?”  
“Lestrade owes me 50 quid, but I don’t think he’ll mind paying.”  
“What?”  
“Oh, just one of those things.”  
  
Not even Sherlock Holmes could unravel all the mysteries of this universe. For now, he’ll have to make do with the satisfaction of John avoiding Anderson’s gaze as he untied him. 


End file.
